WOLFISH ⊳ arthur morgan x reader

Ch. XVII

You'd never woken up to something quite as peaceful as distant, slow gramophone music and quiet, sleep-drunkened, faraway conversations.

Only the sounds of nature could hope to rival that, in your good opinion.

But that was a luxury the room — or, more precisely, the city you were in — couldn't quite afford. Saint Denis.

You stretched out your legs and nuzzled your face into the soft pillow, enjoying the smell of freshly washed sheets, combined with just the faintest smell of multiple kinds of alcohol.

Oh God. Last night. The half-assed bar fight. Your intimate, and not to mention extremely foolish moment with Arthur. Arthur. The money. Where was—

You sat up, kicking away the blanket in the process.

Arthur was gone. Nowhere to be seen. Not on the white couch he'd slept on, not in the corner of the room, nowhere else in that small, godforsaken space.

"Arthur?" You called out, but received silence for an answer. Shit.

He couldn't have gotten too far, right? It was only — you checked your pocket watch — 7 AM.

You jumped out of the bed, putting on your boots, simultaneously looking for your satchel. Where had you left the damn thing?

Right, of course, it had spilled some of its contents the night before, just after you had set it beside the nightstand. So that was where you checked.

It was missing. It felt like a punch to the gut, the realization that you'd been probably robbed of what little money you still had—

And then you found the satchel: on the hat stand. Neatly packed and closed. Just below it, on the coffee table, there was a sheet of paper, with coins tactically placed on each of its corners to avoid it slipping off the table under the influence of the soft breeze entering through an open window. You guessed it was a letter, perhaps, as you curiously approached, but quickly realized it was empty, aside from just one sentence written in the middle.

Blood rushed to your head as you stared at the letters, the handwriting, and it clicked. Arthur had found out. He knew. He knew you were a bounty hunter — but how?

Holding your breath, you moved away the coins, realizing, to your surprise, that they were the exact amount the room had costed. The moment you flipped over the paper, it all made sense. Arthur's rugged features were printed on it, and in big, bold letters, the title announced: WANTED 5000$.

The bounty poster. Arthur's bounty poster.

It must've fallen out of your satchel that night, and the rest had been history.

You sat back down onto the mattress, propping your head against your hands as you stared at the poster. You wanted, really wanted to believe that all of this was a series of unfortunate events, but it wasn't. Ultimately, all of it came down to the fact that you'd acted like an absolute idiot, a buffoon, a child. You should've pointed a gun at him the moment you'd met.

But at the same time, you knew that if by some miracle, you'd be granted the chance to try it all again, you wouldn't change a thing.

And perhaps that was the detail that irked you the most.

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For a little while, you had decided to take a break from bounty hunting altogether, and try other, perhaps more nonconventional ways of making money. An idea had quickly come to mind, in spite of how much as you had doubted Arthur's more legal methods of making small amounts of profit, you had to admit that hunting could prove to be just a little more lucrative than selling wild horses. Not by a lot, but at the very least, you could get your aunt the needed amount of medicine she'd been prescribed. And learn to avoid incidents similar to the wolf one.

So, to soothe your pride, or maybe to inflate it (or perhaps both) you had decided to start big. A gigantic bear up in Grizzlies had caught your attention and promised to be especially profitable, bringing in a copious amount of dollars for its pelt.

You had to stifle a giggle at the memory of hiding in a tree, with your arms shaking as if they were made of falling autumn leaves, and your hands sweaty enough to look like you had dipped them in the nearest lake. Firing shot after shot the moment something gigantic and brown started running towards you, mentally praying to have hit something vital. You vividly remembered having hoped that bears, or at least this one, couldn't climb, especially not trees. You also remembered utter relief you had felt when the beast had collapsed just below the tree you were hiding on.

You had earned a good and honest sum of 60 dollars for its pelt, and while that had been more than enough for a little while, you were hoping to add a little more to your wallet on your current attempt at tracking down a legendary coyote.

This time, Lobo had joined you, and was enthusiastically running around the beautiful meadows of Lemoyne, exploring everything that moved and didn't move. His brownish fur was still dripping wet from an impromptu bath he had taken in Dewberry creek a few minutes ago, but that seemed to be the last point of interest on his mind.

You slowed down your horse in the slightest, starting to scout the area with your eyes. Nothing so far. You tied your steed to a tree, retrieved your rifle, mentally prepared yourself for the tedious hours of searching for clues that were going to follow.

Until Lobo barked, that was.

You turned your attention towards him, the naive hope that maybe he had stumbled across a clue to ease your hunting started forming in your head. You approached the animal quickly, realizing that he had indeed found something, perhaps some dung. Furrowing your brows, you crouched beside him—

The thundering of galloping horses. Not too far, but not exactly close either, accompanied by a conversation. Your head whipped around, trying to locate the source, which you had succeeded at: three riders.

Two of them were more than certainly unknown to you, but the one that closed the group — well, it was safe to say that you would recognize that gorgeous white horse, that slack posture and dark leather hat just about anywhere.

Arthur Morgan.